home is somewhere i'm going and never have been before
by hale-and-hearty
Summary: Alex is babysitting when his worst nightmare occurs. / a series of ficlets in my "homes out of human beings" verse, not necessarily in chronological order
1. Alex's Adventures in Babysitting

**Set somewhere after "for men who are also wolves" but before "as quiet as a closed mouth."**

 **Thanks to Terri, as always, for encouraging me to write this BS, and to everyone else who mentioned wanted a scene with K-Unit. This probably wasn't what you had in mind but I had so much fun writing it!**

* * *

Alex is babysitting when his worst nightmare occurs.

He's got Geoffrey, tiny and small and barely six months old, in one arm, and in the other, the bottle of milk Nina prepped for him before she left. Geoffrey is rejecting the bottle, which is fair, because he's used to drinking his milk straight from the breast, but Alex is pretty sure he can talk the baby into drinking it, and the latest Bond movie is playing on the television on low volume, and Nina is only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours, just long enough to get groceries and make it back. Wolf is out with some of his friends, Alex supposes. That's fine too. They're not really the kind of acquaintances who like being around each other.

He hears the heavy footsteps falling on the stairs first and doesn't pay attention to it, because a group of really annoying overgrown frat boys lives on the floor above them and Nina is forever complaining about them (and not so subtly hinting at wanting to move, even though it goes way over Wolf's head), but then he hears the doorknob jangling and he's on his feet in an instant.

Geoffrey's bottle hits the floor and Alex tenses, has an eye on four possible exits and three solid hiding places just in case, but then he registers the keys and the sound of the lock clicking out of the place, and relaxes just in time for Wolf to push open the door and let himself and his two big, muscly friends into the apartment.

There's a beat.

"Fuck," Alex says, finally, "Some warning before you come barging in like a caveman, maybe? Jesus. Were you raised by actual fucking wolves?"

Wolf glares and points at him with one hand while the other tosses his house keys onto the table near the door. "Don't say 'fuck' in front of my kid."

"…Cub?"

Alex ignores the two men gaping at him in the doorway, and carefully leans down to pick up Geoffrey's bottle, carrying it—and the baby—into the kitchen to rinse it off. "I was trying to figure out how to jump out of the window without hurting your kid, so just so you know, if someone ever _does_ break in while I'm here, Cub 2.0 is in pretty good hands."

"Did you just call my son Cub 2.0?"

"…that's actually Cub? What the hell? _Cub_ is your babysitter?"

Alex glares at Eagle. "Babysitter is a strong word. I prefer _hanging out_."

"I preferred you when you were scared of us," Eagle retorts, and sticks his tongue out. Alex flips him off, and Wolf protests the gesture, and Snake silently watches the interaction with his eyebrows raised.

After an awkward handoff of Geoffrey (go figure, the kid latches right onto the bottle when it's Wolf feeding him), Snake finally says, "I'm assuming you have a real name."

"You would assume," Alex agrees. He sticks his hands in his pockets and waggles his eyebrows mischievously when he says, "I'll show you mine if you show me yours?"

There's this awkward silence where it's clear that Snake has no idea how to reply to that, mouth parting in surprise. Wolf snorts. "His name is Alex. He's still a smartass, but Nina likes him, so he babysits sometimes."

Alex squints at him, annoyed that Wolf is ruining his game, and adds, "I'm also having an affair with your wife."

Then he leaves the room, sliding into his shoes in the hallway. He pauses in the open door long enough to hear Wolf tell the others, "I can't tell if that was sarcasm or not," before he leaves.

He could probably go his entire life without seeing K-Unit again. Except for maybe Ben, all things considered. Wolf, too, he supposes, but only because he likes Nina and Geoffrey.

Alex bumps into Nina on his way down, and she smiles brightly at him as she carries her sack of groceries up the stairs. "James is back already?"

"Yes," Alex says, and then, "Hey, if he asks, we're having an affair."

Nina barely blinks. "Call me when it's legal, honey," she says, and blows him a kiss as he takes off down the stairs, laughing.

Wolf texts him later, when he's watching John write on his blog while Sherlock screechily plays violin. _Snake wanted you to know their names so you're on an even playing field. Chris & Connor._

Alex texts back, _Still fucking ur wife_ , and then, immediately after, _And NO, I have no interest in anymore team reunions_.

Wolf's reply comes ten minutes later, when John has stopped blogging and started bickering with Sherlock over the volume of Sherlock's violin, which only makes Sherlock play worse and louder, if that's possible. _You're not even part of the team. Brat_.

Alex feels stupidly warm inside, which is gross, because it's Wolf. But if Sherlock and John are like his parents—whose sex life he knows way too much about, probably—then Wolf feels kind of like an older brother. Alex wouldn't extend that same comparison to Snake or Eagle, all things considered. As far as he's concerned, they have zero redeeming qualities. At least he got to push _Wolf_ out of a plane.

He sets his phone down and says to John and Sherlock, "If you're going to use arguing as foreplay, please stop doing it in front of me," and it flusters John enough that he stops trying to break Sherlock's violin long enough for Sherlock to hold it high above his head, far out of John's reach. Alex snorts. Things aren't perfect here, and they probably won't ever be. Sometimes he still gets the urge to just run and never come back. But this feels more and more like home everyday—and getting comfortable with Nina and Wolf isn't helping.

But that's okay, too, he tells himself. As long as he never calls Wolf _James_ , it's not that serious.

That's what he tells himself, anyways.

* * *

 **AN: And he obviously does later consider Wolf and Nina family, but he probably still denies it because "it's not real if I don't call Wolf by his real name." Okay, Alex, keep telling yourself that.**

 **If anyone has any other requests for little ficlets like this, I'd be more than interested in hearing them! I love this dear little universe and I'm having fun playing in it right now, so I'd love to know what you guys want to see!**

 **Thanks a million,**

 **Hale (:**


	2. The One Where Alex is Kidnapped AGAIN

**AN: Happy birthday, Terri! You're officially Not a Teen. Congrats on getting closer to dying?**

 **This is one of a few installments in the hoohb verse that are written specifically for Terri's birthday, so if they're overly indulgent (aka complete shitposting) it's because I know that's what she likes. Hope you guys enjoy it anyways!**

 **This one is set somewhere in the gray area between "begin to resemble every bad memory" and "as quiet as a closed mouth." Moriarty is probably pretty OOC in this, sorry, he was really hard to characterize. I obviously took some liberties with Sebastian Moran, because if he was in the show I don't remember it, so I just kind of made him up to suit my universe.**

* * *

The apartment smells like chemicals. In and of itself, that's not unusual, given all of Sherlock's science experiments, so initially, it doesn't phase Alex.

He stumbles out of bed, trying not to inhale the thick, foggy whatever wafting in through his half open door, and wonders if this is what is finally going to kill him. After all the shit he's been through, Sherlock's goddamn science experiment gets the honor.

He snorts. A lot of people will be pissed about that.

He pulls the collar of his T-shirt up over his mouth to limit his intake, and makes his way into the hallway. "John?" he calls. "Sherlock? Crack open a bloody window, huh? Child present, I'm too young to get lung cancer."

There's no answer. He rounds the corner into the living room, where the smoke is thicker, and on the couch is - not Sherlock. Or John.

The man is lean and composed of sharp lines, one leg crossed over the other, body ironed into a perfectly fitted suit. He's wearing a gas mask, too, so that doesn't seem to bode well for Alex.

"Fuck," he says, and squints at the man through the smoke, coughing as he inhales more. "If you're looking for Sherlock, he's not in. I can take a message. Maybe a better day to come by and kidnap him?"

Through the mask, it's impossible to tell, but the tilt of the man's head suggests he's smiling.

"No, no," he drawls, voice tinny through the mask, and Alex is starting to feel lightheaded, so that probably explains why the man is suddenly spinning, "I'm here for you."

Alex tries to say something witty in response. Like maybe, "Get in line," or the classic, "You're not the first and you won't be the last," or maybe even a more simple "Fuck you, buddy." Something like that. Followed with a roundhouse kick to his stupid head, and then beating it out of the flat before he can ingest anymore chemicals.

Not that any of that pans out.

"You…" he coughs out, and then he's so dizzy he can't stand straight anymore, and he thinks he hits his head on the way down. His vision is swimming and the man's face, mask and all, floats into his line of sight. The guy is definitely smiling, Alex thinks. It sends shivers up his spine.

Then the gas takes him, and he's out.

* * *

Alex wakes up in a bed. He keeps his breathing light and doesn't open his eyes, listening to his surroundings - but there's nothing. Just silence.

He cracks an eye open.

The walls are painted dark blue, and there's a chest of drawers on the other side of the room. There's no window, but there is a mirror directly opposite the bed, and in it Alex can see himself and the bed and the wall directly behind him. He's completely alone.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and waits, listening for any indication that he's being watched by cameras. But there's still nothing.

He frowns. Surely, whoever took him has to be keeping an eye on him. But other than the mirror, there's nothing. He stands and crosses the room, pressing his thumb against the glass of the mirror. In the reflection, there's a gap between his nail and the glass. He lets his hand drop. It's a real mirror, then.

He tries the door next - locked, but he figured it would be, so that's not a surprise. He thinks for a moment, looking around the sparsely decorated room, before moving to rummage through the drawers. They're full of clothes, all around his size, and, on further inspection, _his_. It's all his, all of his clothes from the flat. He scowls at the drawers even as he changes into a pair of cargo pants and a sweatshirt, finding a pair of his trainers at the foot of the bed. Then he searches the drawers on the bedside table, and sure enough, there's his wallet. He flips through it-his ID is gone, but everything else is there.

Including two sticks of chewing gum.

Alex smirks, and unwraps one of the sticks, chewing it until it's tacky and wet, ignoring the sour, coppery taste of the gum, before pulling it from his mouth. It starts sizzling almost immediately, and he shoves it into the doorknob where a key would go, and then backs away, bracing himself against the other side of the dresser just as the blast goes off.

When he peers back around, the door is ajar, and the doorknob is smoking. Perfect.

He darts out of the room into an equally sparse hallway, listening briefly at the door for the sound of footsteps or shouting or anything to indicate the blast was heard.

There's still no one. Alex isn't sure if he should feel grateful or worried.

There are two other doors down the hallway, but when he presses his ears to the doors, he hears nothing. Both rooms are locked, anyways, and he's not sure blasting those open are such a good idea. He's already lucked out of his own room; there's no point in putting himself at further risk. Instead, he creeps down the hallway, pausing every now and then to listen even though there's nothing. It's the weirdest kidnapping he's ever been part of, and he's been kidnapped, like, a lot.

The hallway opens into a living room, decorated with a sectional and a flat screen above an unlit fireplace, a big window facing a brick wall. There's noise in the adjacent room, and Alex crouches down to peer around the wall into the kitchen.

There, at the table. The man from the flat, with the mask. He's not wearing the mask now, of course, but Alex can tell it's him anyways. He has the same pressed lines to his suit, the vague feline grace with which he moves as he flips through a newspaper.

"Seb, be a dear," he drawls, "More tea, please."

Someone out of sight grunts, and then a very large, dark-skinned man moves into view, taking the first man's mug and presumably filling it back up out of sight. The first man flips a page while he waits, and then says, without looking up, "Are you going to sit there on the floor or come join us at the table?"

Alex blinks, then realizes the man is talking to him when he finally looks up from the paper and makes direct eye contact. The other man comes back into view and glances over at Alex with a disinterested grunt.

Alex rises to his full height slowly, easing into the room with all his senses alert. The kettle is on and squealing, but the second man flicks off the heat without glancing back at it, and the sound slowly reduces to just steam. The first man sips his freshly poured tea and says, "Sit, Alex, please, you're like an anxious dog. I promise I won't hurt you. Very much, that is. If at all. It depends on how cooperative you are, doesn't it, Seb?"

The other man, Seb, grunts in response. Then he sits at the table next to the other man and steals the newspaper from him.

Alex sinks into a chair at the other end of the table and stares at him. The man beams.

" _So_ lovely to finally make your acquaintance," he gushes. "I've heard so much about you, you know - through Sherlock, of course. He didn't mention your trick with the gum back there, however. Very, very clever of you, wasn't it? Of course, any child of Sherlock's must be so very clever."

Alex blinks. He _knew_ they were watching him in that room. Not that they seem angry he broke out.

"Sherlock is not my father," he says flatly. "And I'm afraid he hasn't mentioned you, so-"

"Oh, of course," the man interrupts, and gestures to himself with a flourish. "James Moriarty. Pleased to meet you."

"Okay," Alex says, slowly. "That doesn't help. But okay."

The man's - Moriarty's - smile is suddenly strained. "You know who I am. Of course you know."

Alex shakes his head. "Nope. I've never heard of you."

"Jim Moriarty. Sherlock's archnemesis? The only puzzle he could never solve?"

Alex blinks demurely. "Doesn't ring a bell. Sherlock must have forgotten to mention you."

Moriarty's eye twitches. It's satisfying to watch.

Now that Alex thinks about it, he's definitely heard the name Moriarty before - but not from Sherlock. From Lestrade, actually. He's always ranting about "that mad man Moriarty" and then cutting himself off when he sees Alex. Alex assumed he was just irritated that there was a teenager in the precinct again. Maybe there was more to it, if the kidnapping is anything to go by.

It's nothing Alex can't handle, clearly.

"That's too bad," Moriarty says, pouting, "we really do have a lot of fun together. That's why you're here, of course. You know Sherlock. It's all about the _game_."

Alex squints at him. "Did you kidnap me as some kind of romantic declaration?"

Moriarty opens his mouth, but Seb beats him to speaking. "He's got a bit of a crush on Sherlock Holmes. Not much of a secret."

Moriarty turns on him sharply. "I do not! I just happen to find him intellectually stimulating. Unlike _you_ , you brute. All you do is stand there and look menacing."

Alex says, "He's sitting now," and Seb nods his agreement, face unreadable.

Moriarty glares at Alex. "I have half a mind to just kill you now and forget the game, so mind your tongue."

"Do it," Alex says, because he probably has a death wish, "Put me out of my misery, please."

They stare at each other for a long moment. A clock ticks on in the other room, but otherwise, there's silence.

Seb breaks it by saying, not looking up from the newspaper, "Didn't you say you wanted to adopt, Jimmy? To have an heir to your throne and all? Seems you've met your match."

Alex says, "Please, no, I already have two dads, I don't need any more."

Moriarty stands abruptly from the table. "I need a moment," he announces, and then promptly flees the room.

Alex looks at Seb, who flips a page and says, "I think you broke him. Nice."

"Nice," Alex agrees. "So, can I leave now, or…?"

"No, no, he'd kill me if I just let you walk out," Seb says, and the way he says it sounds like he's not joking, but then it's hard to tell, all things considered. "There's telly in the next room. He'll come back when he's done pouting and strap you into a bomb or whatever and then dangle you in front of Sherlock's nose."

"Oh, a bomb," Alex says lightly, "My favorite. Do I die today?"

Seb shrugs. "That depends on Sherlock. My guess is probably not. Jim's getting a little desperate if he's kidnapping you. I wanted to set the housekeeper on fire, but-"

"Landlady," Alex interrupts, and Seb just shrugs again, so Alex leaves the room. The exit must be through one of the other rooms down that hallway, but so is Moriarty, so Alex goes to inspect the window. They're about three stories up, looking down on cement and garbage below the ruested fire escape. It seems like an obvious choice, assuming it's not going to fall apart - but it's not that far of a fall.

Alex tries to pry open the window and finds it glued shut, and then steps back to study it it. And then the television. Seb is out of sight around the corner but presumably still seated at the table. Moriarty is somewhere down that hallway. Alex considers for another moment the seemingly low security of the building, the belligerent nature of his kidnappers. Then he carefully unplugs the television, heaves it off the stand, and throws it out the window.

The sound of shattering glass draws a loud groan from Seb in the kitchen, and Alex throws himself out the window after the television.

The fire escape is rickety but manageable, and Alex takes the steps two at a time down and around until the ladder from the second floor to the first, thrusting himself onto it with so much weight that it goes crashing into the concrete, breaking away from the braces connecting it to the rest of the fire escape. The breath leaves Alex's body in a rush as his back hits the floor, the ladder slamming hard into his ribs. The world swims above him; he must have hit his head, too. There's something sticky in his hair that is probably blood, but Seb is lowering himself onto the fire escape already, so there's no time to worry about it. Alex pushes the ladder away from him with a groan and leaps to his feet, pushing through the dizziness and nausea as he takes off running.

He's about three blocks from 221B. That seems dangerously close, for his kidnappers, but maybe that was the idea. If Sherlock and John have even noticed that Alex is missing, they probably aren't searching the immediate area for him.

It also means it's really easy to get home. And, presumably, if this is just all part of some weird foreplay for Moriarty, they're not actually going to burst into the flat, guns blazing, to kill him and John and Sherlock.

Probably. Those guys seemed like real nutcases, though, so Alex isn't positive.

When he lets himself into the flat, all of goddamn Scotland Yard is there, standing around yelling at each other. John is seated at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Sherlock is standing in his seat with his eyes closed and his fingertips on his temples like it's helping him think.

Lestrade and that girl, Sally, are bickering with the forensic analysts, and that asshole Anderson is demanding they do a drugs raid, although no one is listening to him.

No one notices Alex enter the apartment, and he waits a moment before putting his hands on his hips and saying, "I've had a terrible day and I'm really disappointed there isn't a hot meal ready for me."

The room descends into silence.

Sherlock cracks his eyes open and lets his hands fall away from his head and says, "Oh, Alex, excellent. The entire city of goddamn London invited themselves into the flat to look for you."

"I'm flattered," Alex deadpans, "and still hungry. John - ?"

John just about falls out his seat in his haste to stand up. He rushes around the table and bodily wraps himself around Alex, squeezing so tight he can hardly breathe. "What the hell, Alex," he grumbles, "you had us worried _sick_."

"Next time I get kidnapped, I'll leave a note," Alex says dryly, and gently disentangles himself from John's embrace to tell Lestrade, "So Jim Moriarty and some bloke named Seb are holed up in a flat three blocks over. I can take you back there, but if they're as smart as they claimed to be, I would assume they've already left."

Lestrade blinks, and then nods, and gathers his team. On the way out, he puts a hand on Alex's shoulder and says, gruffly, "Glad you're not dead."

"Well, I'm going to be if someone doesn't feed me soon," Alex grouses. "How long was I gone? Two days? Three? Jesus. I'm starving."

"It was sixteen hours," John says, unimpressed, but Lestrade snorts, squeezes Alex's shoulder, and then follows his team out the door.

Sherlock leaps out of his chair and says, "Get the boy some food, John," and John flings his hands up in the air and grumbles about being underappreciated as he moves to open the refrigerator.

Sherlock eyes Alex critically. "Moriarty," he murmurs thoughtfully, and Alex nods. He harrumphs. "You," he announces, loudly, "are going to be used against me quite a bit, aren't you?"

He frowns deeply and says, "Bollocks." Then he leaves the room.

Alex has a feeling it's a good thing. Not that he's been kidnapped and all. But that he matters so much to Sherlock.

"Hey," Alex says, a sudden realization dawning on him. John turns away from the fridge, raising his eyebrows in acknowledgement, and Alex says, "Those assholes still have all my shit."

* * *

 _* c_ ue family trip to the mall wherein Sherlock and John bicker the whole time and Alex complains because "what's the point in having two gay dads if they both have terrible taste in fashion" *

 _fin._


	3. The Vault Mystery

**AN: Set after sugar, everywhere, with direct references to begin to resemble every bad memory.**

 **part 2 of Terri's 20th birthday fics**

 **sorry my explanation for the vault killing was so wild, but it's Sherlock so I wasn't even going to try to make it super intelligent**

* * *

Alex learned a long time ago that when the doorbell rings at three o'clock in the morning, it's not a fucking good thing. So when someone starts banging on his door and it wakes him up at three forty-seven am, he really, really is not going to answer it.

Then he hears Sherlock's voice call, "Alex, for the love of Christ, open the damn door," and he stumbles from bed to let him in.

Jack is already in the living room, comforter draped around her shoulders, bags heavy under her eyes and red curls matted to one side of her head. "The hell?" she mumbles, half-asleep, and Alex just shakes his head.

"It's Sherlock," he grumbles, "Go back to sleep."

Jack hums, and then, eyes slipping shut, turns on her heel and disappears back into her bedroom. Alex watches her go wistfully, remembering how comfortable and warm his own bed was, but then Sherlock pounds on the door again, so he sighs, and goes to let him in.

"I figured it out!" Sherlock announces, pushing past Alex as soon as the door is open. His hair is wild, a five o'clock shadow sprawling over his jawline, and the buttons of his shirt are crooked. Alex gives him an unimpressed once-over. He smells like alcohol.

"Did you and John have a row again?" he asks. "I thought we agreed last time that I wasn't going to take sides in anymore of your fights, so my flat is off limits if you're here to lick your wounds."

Sherlock whirls around to face him with a wild shake of his head. "No, I'm not here to lick my wounds - although we may have had a little tiff, mind - I'm here because _I figured it out_!"

Alex gives him a bemused look. "Figured _what_ out?"

"How he did it," Sherlock says impatiently. "How Gregorovich killed the man in the safe."

There's a beat of silence.

Alex says, very levelly, "Please tell me you didn't come banging on my door at three in the goddamn morning just to tell me you finally cracked a cold case from five years ago." Sherlock makes a face, and Alex's voice is considerably less controlled when he says, " _Goddamn_ it. I didn't know you were even still looking into that case. It was _five years ago_."

Alex throws himself down onto the couch and glares up at Sherlock. "Well? How did he do it?"

Sherlock lights up, moving like his veins are live with electricity. "Bullet to the head. A man was shot in the head in this impenetrable vault. The cameras were off, of course, but the guards claim they heard nothing, and there were no traces of another person in the vault with him. So how did he die?"

Alex says, "I really was hoping you'd tell me," and Sherlock is so excited he seems to miss the sarcasm entirely.

"The vault," Sherlock says, grandly, spreading his arms for emphasis, "was not impenetrable."

Alex waits, but apparently, that was the big announcement. Sherlock drops into the couch opposite Alex and curls up, looking satisfied.

Alex squints at him. "Is that it? That's what you've come up with?"

Sherlock grins, and Alex thinks, yes, he's incredibly intoxicated. Alex didn't get to bed until one am, after another late night at the bar. He didn't sign up for this shit.

"The vault wasn't impenetrable!" Sherlock repeats, beaming. "Gregorovich was already _in_ the vault."

Alex shakes his head, standing and heading for his bedroom again. "Get some sleep, Sherlock," he calls over his shoulder, and can hear Sherlock mumbling about the vault more before he closes the door behind him.

He picks his phone up off the bedside table and texts John, _please come collect your husband AT A REASONABLE HOUR THANKS_ , and then promptly passes out again.

* * *

 _fin._


	4. Alex's Adventures in Babysitting part 2

**AN: set between architecture of loss and like you have no secrets.**

* * *

Alex has been watching the woman for about ten minutes before the man shows up.

There's nothing strictly out of the ordinary about either of them. The woman looks to be in her early fifties, with dyed-brown hair, body folded into a crisp, cream colored suit. She's reading a newspaper, seated on the bench nearest Alex, minding her business. Clearly, she's just another suit enjoying the mild weather.

The paper is dated the twenty-second of November, 2013. It's mid-March of 2017 now. That's what tips Alex off.

The man himself is equally bland. Salt and pepper hair, a neatly combed beard. He's wearing trainers and athletic shorts, sporting a smart watch on his wrist as he jobs through the park. He stops near the woman, and the two strike up a friendly conversation. They speak for a moment, he borrows her newspaper. In a sleight of hand Alex wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't watching for it, the man pulls an envelope from the folds of the paper and deposits it in his pocket. The two share a few more words, and then the man resumes his job, passing Alex without sparing him a glance.

Alex isn't sure who the woman is, but the small scorpion he spots inked on the inside of the man's wrist speaks volumes.

It could be a coincidence, Alex tells himself, but it's too obvious. The newspaper, the envelope, the tattoo. It's all _too_ obvious. Alex literally can't resist.

When the woman stands and begins to make her way out of the park, Alex steps onto the playground and scoops Geoffrey right off the swingset, blowing a raspberry to his exposed stomach where his shirt ride up. Geoffrey laughs, and Alex swings him down onto his hip, jogging back towards the parking lot. The woman is loading herself into a small, energy-conserving hybrid, and Alex quickly buckles Geoffrey into his carseat before peeling out of the parking lot to follow her.

"Al?" Geoffrey asks. He's four, but he's not much for talking. Nina is getting increasingly frustrated with him. He can say _mummy_ , _papa_ , _Al_ , and _more_. She's really just hoping to get a _please_ in there somewhere.

"It's okay," Alex tells him, even though he doesn't seem upset. "We're just taking a little drive."

Geoffrey hums in the backseat, and makes soft car sounds to himself as he drags a Hot Wheel toy up and down his leg. Alex uses the bluetooth system in his car to call Sherlock.

"I'm pretty sure I just watched a woman make a payment to an assassin," Alex says as soon as Sherlock picks up. "Just thought you should know in case I die."

John's voice says, clearly unimpressed, "Aren't you babysitting?"

Alex blinks, glancing at the caller-ID. No, he definitely called Sherlock. "Where's Sherlock? Why are you answering his phone?"

"He's got a case," John says. "Listen, Alex, whatever you witnessed, please for the love of God, don't do anything about it. Let me call Lestrade and have him handle it."

"First of all," Alex says, offended, "Lestrade isn't capable of handling this. Mycroft, maybe, although I doubt he himself would handle it. His cronies would, maybe. Second of all, I have no idea who this woman was, so if I stop tailing her _none_ of the authorities will be able to find her again."

"You're _tailing_ her? Alex! You have a toddler in your backseat!"

"Just tell Mycroft to track my GPS," Alex says, and then, "Bye, John."

He hangs up to the sound of John's protests.

* * *

The woman lives in a nice house downtown. She pulls groceries out of the trunk of her car, and leaves the door open when she lets herself into the house. Alex balances Geoffrey on one hip and the last of her bags on the other and lets himself into her house.

She's setting her bags on the counter when he walks in, her back to him, and he says, "Where should I set these?" and she jumps about half a mile out of her skin.

"Christ!" she gasps, jerking around to face him, her palm pressed flat against her chest. "Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?"

She looks less frightened than she should, like maybe Alex is just some random kid with misguided intent to politely help with her groceries.

It has to be Geoffrey. He makes Alex look _normal_.

Alex sets his back on the island and adjusts Geoffrey's placement on his hip, looking around the kitchen. She has a very nice house; she's clearly well-off. Alex wonders who she paid to have killed.

"I was actually hoping to ask you a few questions," Alex says, in his best impression of _normal nineteen year old_. He's been working really hard on it. There's definitely been an improvement.

The woman purses her lips and gestures, like, _well, go ahead_.

Alex says, "What business do you have with Scorpia?"

There's this beat of silence, where the woman kind of has this little smile like she's indulging a nice neighborhood kid, and then she registers his words and her face goes sheet white.

She staggers back half a step, hand clasped once again to her breast. "How do you know that name?" she whispers.

Alex says, "That's really not the point. I'm just a concerned citizen."

Then, he smiles with all his teeth. He's been told it's truly frightening to witness.

The woman blinks, and blinks, and blinks, and then her eyes get all misty and she says, "Oh, this has truly gone all to hell," and moves quickly through the kitchen, drawing a bottle of white wine off the shelf and cracking it open. She hesitates over the glasses, asks Alex, "Would you - ?" and pours him a glass when he nods. Then she takes a long drink straight from the bottle, and drops heavily into a chair at the table.

Alex sits with more hesitance, and the woman studies her bottle for the long time, fingers wrapped tightly around it.

"I didn't plan for this, you know," she says, hoarsely. "It started with my husband. Franklin. He had - " here she lowers her voice, " - testicular cancer. There's a ninety-eight percent survival rate, you know? And my Franklin was the two percent that didn't. It was after he passed that all this _bullshit_ came to light."

She glances at Geoffrey and says, "Pardon my language."

Geoffrey is happily gnawing on his fist, so Alex waves off her apology, and she continues.

"Come to find out Franklin owed a lot of people a lot of money. Now I'm stuck paying off those damn - sorry, I know, language - _assassins_ until I die. Did you know it was that expensive it was to hire an assassin? Honestly. It's ridiculous."

Alex feels himself softening with sympathy for her. "So your husband hired Scorpia before his death to assassinate people," he deduces, "and now you're left to clean up his mess."

She laughs, and it's loud and sharp, drowned by the following heavy swallow of wine. "Oh, honey, no," she says, setting the bottle aside, " _I_ hired the assassins. To kill off the people my husband was indebted to." She smiles and it's suddenly very cold. "Now I have to kill you, too."

And then she's got a gun. Alex says, eloquently, "Shit," and tucks and rolls out of the kitchen, Geoffrey yelping and clutching tightly to his neck as she shoots off a round. It's a lot harder to move with a toddler wrapped around his torso, but Alex manages to sprint out onto the front lawn, the woman chasing after him, waving the gun around wildly. Maybe it's the fact that it would look pretty bad if she chased him and a toddler out into the neighborhood with a gun. Maybe it's the fact that all of Scotland Yard is already in her driveway. It's really anyone's guess.

It's all over very fast, after that. Lestrade gets the woman into a pair of handcuffs and Sally asks Alex questions about what happened, what did the man look like, what the bloody hell were you thinking charging in there on your own with a _toddler_ , Christ, Alex.

John is there behind police lines, arms folded over his chest, glaring. Geoffrey gets passed off to him, at some point, and when Alex is finally dismissed from questioning, Sally blocking him gently over the ear, he joins them out of the fray.

John turns and starts stalking over to Alex's car without a word. He jerkily buckles Geoffrey into his car seat, and then holds out his hand, not quite making eye contact. His movements are stiff and angry, and Alex has to physically refrain from lowering his head in apology as he hands over his car keys. It's the _worst_ when John is mad at him. He can really hold a grudge.

They're halfway back to 221B when John says in a terse, clipped voice, "Next time you throw yourself headfirst into danger, try to keep the _toddler_ out of it. For the love of God."

Alex rolls his eyes. "Geoffrey wasn't in danger. I wouldn't have let him get hurt."

It's the wrong thing to say. John's fingers tighten around the steering wheel.

"That's _not your call, Alex_ ," he says, very loudly. It's a near shout, and as soon as John is done speaking the silence gets very, very heavy. Then, lower, he says, "I'm calling James and Nina and telling them you're an unfit babysitter."

" _You're_ an unfit babysitter," Alex mutters in retort. Thankfully, John doesn't hear him.

There's silence the rest of the way back to 221B, and Alex carefully does not remind John that he's staying at Wolf and Nina's apartment with Geoffrey. John might be right this time, actually. They haven't even been gone a full day and Alex has already risked their son's life. Not that he'll admit that to John.

When they trip into 221B, Geoffrey in John's arms because Alex is no longer considered a suitable babysitter, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table dissecting what looks like a woman's left hand. Alex averts his gaze, and John marches straight through the kitchen without stopping, heading for the back bedrooms.

Sherlock glances up. "What is it now?"

"He's your son, _you_ talk to him!" John yells. A door slams shut somewhere in the flat. Alex winces.

Sherlock meets his gaze, raising his brow. "Dare I ask?"

Alex sits down at the table, careful not to glance at Sherlock's science experiment, and says, gingerly, "I took Geoffrey with me to investigate a woman I believed to be in contact with Scorpia. Which, she was, and then she shot at us - but missed - and we escaped. John's very mad."

Sherlock's mouth parts slightly in thought, and then he says, "Let's not tell the parents," and Alex snorts a laugh.

"He's your husband," he says, pointing towards the bedrooms, " _you_ talk him out of it. We all know Wolf will kill me if he finds out."

"Oh, my, it _is_ a sad day when Sherlock Holmes has to be the voice of reason," Sherlock grumbles, and pushes his chair back so abruptly it screeches along the tile floor.

Alex watches him go, and then calls, "Stop referring to yourself in the third person, it makes you sound like a _nut_."

There's no response. A moment later, Geoffrey comes sprinting down the hallway, beaming, waving something over his head. When Alex catches him, he can see it's a wishbone, and pretends it's not gross as he carefully gathers up Geoffrey's things and leaves the flat.

"Thanks, Sherlock," Alex calls over his shoulder, and he hears John's muffled respond of _wait, we're not done here_ , before he's stifled by Sherlock's - whatever. All Alex needs to know is that it distracted John long enough for him to escape with the toddler.

* * *

 _fin._


	5. A Sticky Situation

**AN: set some time after The One Where Alex Gets Kidnapped… AGAIN and before as quiet as a closed mouth.**

* * *

"Up next," the newscaster is saying, largely ignored by the family in the living room, "A young girl tells the story of how she nearly died after chewing a piece of _explosive gum_. More on that after a brief word from our sponsors."

 _That_ catches Alex's attention. He watches the television for a long time, waiting until the news comes back on, but it's just commercials, so he finally relaxes, turning back to the board game he's playing with John and a reluctant Sherlock. They're both staring at him.

"Christ, Alex," John says, finally. "What the hell did you _do_?"

"What do you mean?" Alex asks. John points wordlessly at the television as the news returns, a tearful, primary-school girl talking about the gum she chewed, spit out because of the awful taste, and then watched explode in front of her. Alex winces. They've got phone camera footage. "Okay, I'm offended that you think I'm responsible for that. Truly."

John raises his eyebrows and folds his arms over his chest, giving him this Concerned Parent look that is incredibly annoying. Sherlock says, not looking up from the board game (it's really taking too long to play just because Sherlock takes so long to choose his move), "Exploding gum. Wonder where we've seen _that_ before."

Alex glares at him. "That was _one time_. And totally unrelated to that girl."

Really, he's thinking _I knew I lost a piece of that gum. Who the hell chews a stick of gum they find in public?_

Someone bangs on the front door, and John clambers to his feet, pointing at Alex and saying, "This conversation is _not_ over."

"Yes, _Dad_ ," Alex grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the couch. Sherlock, sitting cross-legged on the floor on the other side of the coffee table, finally moves his piece across the board, beaming when it sends John's almost winning piece all the way back to _START_. Alex smirks. That's really going to piss John off.

In the foyer, John opens the door, and Lestrade's voice says, "Have you seen the news? Explosive gum? What the bloody hell…? "

"It's _not my fault_!" Alex snaps, throwing his hands up in the air. God. You use one piece of exploding gum to escape a hostage situation and suddenly you're responsible for all the exploding gum in the damn world.

Lestrade peaks into the room to look at Alex, and says, "I mean, we've only seen this once before… You can't blame us for drawing conclusions."

On the news, the newscaster demands answers from parliament, asking _who put such a horrible weapon into the hands of our children_ and calling for a worldwide ban on gum. It's a little extreme, if you ask Alex. Not that anyone is.

"Like I'm the only person in the world who has ever used explosive chewing gum," Alex says hotly, rising to his feet. "I'm honestly offended that you're accusing me of this. Even _you_ , Lestrade. I thought we were friends."

Lestrade looks appropriately ashamed and guilty, and says, "Well, maybe you just dropped it somewhere… No one is saying you did it on purpose, Alex."

Alex glares. "It's not like I have an endless supply. I used my last piece getting away from Moriarty. Maybe you should be looking into _him_. He's supposed to be some evil genius, isn't he? Couldn't he have recreated the formula?"

Smooth, Alex. Pin your mistake on the criminal. Someone should give him an award for _Best at Bullshitting Your Way Out of Trouble._

"I… I suppose he could have," Lestrade says, slowly. He takes a step back, towards the door, and says, "I'll look into it. Sorry for interrupting your evening. John, Sherlock." He tips his head in goodbye and then slips out of the room.

John looks at Alex, aghast. "I can't believe you're going to pass the blame to Moriarty."

"I can't believe you don't believe me," Alex snaps, putting a hand over his heart like he's hurt. Honestly, he is. He really is.

"Leave him alone, John," Sherlock says, and when they turn to look at him, he looks like he finds the whole thing very, very funny. "No one got hurt either way. Even if it _was_ Alex, it wasn't on purpose."

Alex says, "Thank you, Sherlock, for being the only supportive father I need. Now excuse me, I'm retiring for the evening."

He flees for his room. He's not sure he could keep up the charade any longer.

* * *

His phone rings later, an unavailable number flashing on the screen. He almost doesn't answer it, but it might be important.

"Alex," Mrs. Jones' voice greets, smooth as ever.

Alex blinks. "Mrs. Jones. I'd say it's a pleasure to meet you, but I'm afraid that would be a complete lie. Can I ask how you got this number?"

"I have my ways," she replies mysteriously. Alex kind of expected a vague answer, anyways. "Listen, Alex, I'm not calling to ruin your life again. I just wanted to talk to you."

Alex sighs. "I guess you saw the news tonight."

"Who didn't?" Mrs. Jones asks. Alex thinks she's laughing at him. "Just be careful, Alex. You know we can't have anymore mishaps like this. I'd hate to have to confiscate your _gadgets_." She says the word with great disdain. "As far as I'm concerned, you don't have anymore. Is that clear?"

"Yes, ma'am," Alex says, and rolls his eyes. Then he feels guilty, like she's watching him, and mouths _sorry_. Just in case.

"Good," Mrs. Jones says, "Have a pleasant evening, Alex."

Then she hangs up. So it's definitely not the _worst_ conversation Alex has ever had with MI6. At least this time there was no blackmail involved.

* * *

 _fin._

Happy Birthday, bitch. Hope 20 is as good 2 u as I am.


End file.
